Light and Dark
by Lacadiva
Summary: Scofield and Mahone must form an uneasy alliance if they are to survive Sona. One shot.


Light and Dark

by

Lacadiva

Rating: PG 13 for violence.

Disclaimer: Prison Break and characters belong solely to Fox Television. I make nothing from writing this story, except a bit of fun.

Summary: Scofield and Mahone must form an uneasy alliance if they are to survive Sona. One shot. Hope you like it.

"Scofield...I need to talk to you." Mahone stepped up behind Michael, his eyes darting around the large, filthy common area where prisoners lay sleeping, bleeding, or nodding off after a dirty needle full of liquid slow death.

Michael spared him a brief, irritated look, then turned back to watch the other prisoners. He never stopped watching them, afraid to turn his back on them for a moment, afraid to let his guard down, lest he be made a quivering, mewling, victim of uncheck brutality, much like poor Bellick the night of his arrival - naked, humiliated, begging for his life. No, Michael would not allow that to happen to him. He'd take his own life first, if it came to that.

"What do you want, Alex?" Michael asked, perturbed at the ex-fed's presence. Everyday for the past three days, he'd been following Michael around, taking all his cues from Michael, even mimicking Michael's aloof behavior. Anything to survive, Michael thought. Sometimes we have to become the thing we hate to survive.

"Look, I know we got off to a bad start..." Alex regretted his words an instant after they spewed from his mouth.

"That's an understatement, don't you think?" asked Michael. Images of Mahone chasing him, shooting at him, threatening him, ran through his mind. Michael felt the anger building up, but knew this was not the time to release it. Better not to call too much attention to himself. Though, if he did choose now to beat the man down, he could quickly establish himself as the new alpha dog of the prison. But there'd only be another dog, nastier and deadlier, waiting to assert his authority over Michael. And that could get him killed.

His aim was not to merely survive Sona, but to escape, find a way out as quickly as possible. The thought of freedom was the only thing that kept his heart beating.

"C'mon, Scofield! I just..." Alex stopped, forcing himself to be calm, forcing his voice to take on a less insistent, irrational tone, "I just want to know if you've considered my offer."

"Your offer? You mean your I-watch-your-back-if-you-watch-mine offer? I have. Not interested."

Mahone hugged himself as a shiver of raw cold and pain rattled through him. Some of it was nerves. Some of it anger. But mostly, it was withdrawal. He'd been without his pills for days. His nerves were killing him. He hadn't slept more than a half dozen hours since the Policia had thrown him into this hellhole-pit-of-despair, and his paranoia meter had been off the charts. He was cracking. Troubling thoughts would be haunting him soon. The dead from his past would be skulking around every corner. Things only he could see would be following him, taunting him, torturing him. He wasn't going to make it. His only hope was to enlist Michael's help, to depend on the ever-cool and calculating genius to lend his protection.

As he saw it, Michael lacked raw strength; Scofield was a thinker, a strategist, not a scrapper like Burrows. Mahone knew the man who had been his prey as well as he knew himself. He should, for he had spent day after day, night after night researching the brothers. Mahone hoped Michael would agree that four fists were better than two, and two sharp minds (though one of them at the moment was quite adled with withdrawal and the shock and stench of Sona) were better than one. But then again, most geniuses - like Mahone - preferred to work alone.

"Scofield...you want to survive this place. So do I."

"If it weren't for you, we wouldn't be here. You made a choice."

"And you would have chosen differently? You wanted that five million just as much as I did."

"Not so loud," Michael warned, as a few cellies had turned and looked their way at the mention of the money. Few things were as universal as large amounts of money. Michael shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoody and discreetly moved to another shadowed corner from which to observe his fellow inmates. Mahone was right behind him, shaking, shivering, sniveling.

"Sorry," Mahone said, and stepped closer. "Look, I-I-I just want to get out of here in one piece."

"Good luck," Michael said, and offer him a thin, wry smile.

"You and I together, we can both walk out of here."

"And how do you figure that? I don't know about you, but at my sentencing, they didn't mention how long I'd be serving. I'm assuming that means indefintely."

"Don't BS me, Scofield. You're already planning your escape. I can see it in your eyes."

Michael didn't deny it. But he didn't admit it, either. He just looked away, that thin smile still playing at his lips.

"I can help you," Mahone insisted.

"You want to help me, Alex? Stay clear of me. If you get in my way, I'll have to kill you."

Michael walked away. Alex stood there, holding himself steady as another wave of pain and cold convulsed through his weakening body.

They served one meal a day at Sona. And it was a farce, as far as Michael was concerned. An aged, toothless man with skin like dried, cracked leather, dragged a black iron pot in on a slab of wood with squeaking, rusted wheels to the center of the common area, and it was every man for himself. Whatever was in the pot smelled as bad as the men who pushed themselves to the front of the line to get their share of it, but at least it was hot, he could tell. He already gone three days without eating, and knew his strength was slipping. He had to eat, even if it meant eating whatever animal (at least, he hoped it was an animal) was being sloppily served in the filthy bowls they were given.

Michael made his way to the line, being sure not to brush against anyone, afraid he'd find himself provoked into a shoving match that, in his current weakened condition, he was sure he would not win. He felt feverish and achy, knowing that his exposure to the elements, sleeping on a dirty floor, and the general filty conditions of the prison were all contributing factors to his waning health. Michael stepped up, holding out his bowl. The old man slapped a bit of prison surprise into it. But before Michael could step out of line, someone elbowed him, and the bowl went crashing to the floor. Michael retrieved the bowl and held it out again.

"Sorry, gringo," the old man said, smiling, revealing one rotting tooth remaining in his mouth, "but this ain't Starbucks. No refills." Those who understood English laughed heartily. Those who didn't laughed anyway. Michael stepped back, hoping no one would choose this moment to challenge him.

Hope was lost when Michael turned to find a man the size of a Mac truck standing before him. He was smiling - not the kind of smile that was contagious, but the kind that could make a man cringe. Michael stepped aside. The Mac truck stepped right in front of him. Michael was not going to get out of this without a fight.

The Mac Truck laid a beefy hand on Michael's shoulder. Michael just looked at his hand, giving the man the chance to reconsider. When he didn't, Michael grabbed hold of the hand and, remembering an old self-defense move he picked up from Lincoln when they were boys, he gave the Mac Truck something to remember - three broken fingers. The Mac Truck fell to his knees, howling in pain. Michael quickly turned to make a hasty exit. Only three of the Mac Trucks amigos were standing there.

"No trouble," Michael said, then repeated it in Spanish. They weren't listening in any language. One of them, the smaller of the three, had something in his hand. He swung at Michael. I didn't take him long to realize it was that most ubiquitous of all prison objects, the shank. A hand-made, improvised weapon, sharped on stone floors or walls, used to make painful, ugly wounds that were usually fatal. Michael leaped out of the way. Shank-man swung again, wider. Michael avoided contact again, but wasn't sure he'd be as successful the next time, as a crowd had gathered, and they were anxious for blood. They were cheering, cat-calling, whistling, hurling insults that were unmistakeable in English or Spanish. They wanted the gringo dead.

Michael felt several hands in the crowd behind him push him forward. He nearly fell on his face, but quick reflexes kept him on his feet. He pulled his hoody over his head and quickly wrapped it around an arm to shield himself against the shank.

Shank-man was feeling inspired by all the yelling from the crowd. He smiled, licking his thin, beard covered lips as if he were about to slice and serve a turkey. He came at Michael again. Michael deflected him with the hoody-wrapped arm, but still felt the material rip. That shank was sharp.

Someone else pushed Michael. This time he lost his balance, just as Shank-man struck again. The shank missed the hoody completely and sliced deeply into Michael's upper arm. Blood seemed to erupt from the gash, and poured down his arm, soaking the hoody. Michael stumbled backwards. The rush of adrenaline, the sudden blood loss, the realization that he might die in this filthy hell hole made his head spin. He felt himself falling backwards in slow motion. He couldn't stop himself. He knew that once he hit the ground, it would be all over. They would descend upon him like flies on a corpse, and they would devour him, and there would be nothing left...nothing left...

Mahone pushed through the throng of blood thirsty revelers, fighting his own instincts for self-preservation, knowing that losing Michael Scofield would mean the end of everything for him as well. He caught Michael before he hit the ground.

Michael instantly began struggling, striking out, fighting to free himself from the arms that held him.

"Easy, easy!" Mahone shouted, and Michael finally heard. He ceased his struggling and saw it was Mahone. He pulled himself away and put a hand on his bleeding wound, too weak in the moment to actually put pressure on it, feeling the warm blood oozing between his fingers and running down his arm.

Mahone grabbed Shank-man and threw him head first into the pot of mystery stew. The prisoners roared with unbridled violence and went after Shank-Man. Mahone used the time to help Michael to his feet and lead him away from the melee.

They went as far as they could, down a long, dark, filthy passageway, to a tiny hole in the wall that had become Mahone's new digs. He helped Michael sit and leaned the bleeding man against the wall. He tried to pull Michael's hand away from his wound, but Michael pulled away from Mahone as if he were the enemy.

"Scofield, it's me, Alex! I'm not gonna hurt you. I just want to see how bad he cut you. Lemme take a look, all right? All right?"

Michael calmed, realizing the immediate danger had passed. He dropped his hand from the wound and let Mahone get a close look.

"How bad?" Michael asked.

"You need stitches, but something tells me you're not get 'em in here. You're just gonna have to escape."

Michael managed a smile. "There's no way out."

Alex smiled now. He ripped the unbloody portions of Michael's hoody into strips, and carefully began wrapping Michael's wound.

"There's no way out," Alex repeated and shook his head skeptically. "I'd believe that, if you weren't the notorious Michael Scofield."

He tied off the wound, a little too tightly. Michael flinched.

"Y'see," Alex said, watching the passageway for signs of Shank-man or others, "I know you. I know everything about you."

"There are laws against stalking," Michael said.

"Very funny. What I'm saying is, I know that your mind won't rest until you figure a way out of here. You don't sleep because your mind won't shut off. You've studied every brick and stone in this pit. I know you have. You count every footstep you make and study every nook and cranny. Hell, you probably know the name of every prisoner here, and what they're in for. If there's a weakness in this place, a vulnerable spot, you've probably already found it. Because that's who you are, Scofield. It's what you do. I'm not asking you to save me. I'm just asking you to let me help you so I can save myself. I want out. You want out. Those guys, we both know what they want. And if we don't get out of here, eventually we're dead."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

Mahone laughed, shaking his head. Then he was hit with another reminder that he was going through withdrawal. His gut seized up, gorge rising into his throat. He held his breath, forcing it back down, willing the pounding in his head to cease and the wave of nausea to subside.

"I'm okay," he said quickly. "I'm okay."

"You're not okay. You're a junky, Mahone. Junkies can't be trusted."

"I AM NOT A JUNKY!" Alex didn't mean to lose his cool so badly. He ran his hand through his sweaty, curly hair and backed away a bit. "I'm not a junky," he said, in a gentler voice. "Not in the traditional sense. The pills I took were prescription. I'm not addicted to them. I needed them to keep...perspective. Without them, I..."

"Hallucinate?" Michael finished for him. Mahone said nothing.

"Let say I had a plan," Michael continued. "And let's say you were in on it with me. What happens when you start seeing things? You'll get us both killed."

"I won't! I won't. I can control it. I can."

"You wouldn't be on medication if you could control it."

"I WILL control it. Look, we can argue about this till they finally let us out of here in twenty or thirty years, if we're lucky. But the truth is, I just saved your butt. That guy with the shank would have ripped you to shreds if I hadn't come along. You OWE me. If you could depend on a piece of human filth like Theodore Bagley, or a nutcase like Charles Patochik to help you escape from Fox River, why can't you trust me?"

"I knew where I stood with T-Bag," Michael said. "Patochik...well, that's another story. How do I know that once we're outside these walls, you'll go your way and let me go mine? How do I know you won't suddenly become super Fed and turn me in for the reward and a huge promotion? How do I know you won't shank me the moment I turn my back because you believe I'm the source of all your misery?"

Mahone regarded Michael with eyes that were clear, focused and determined.

"You'll just have to trust me, Michael."

Michael stared at him for a moment, his eyes like thin slits, hazel orbs sparkling as his mind whirled with plans and ideas and strategies. Then he smiled.

"Okay. This is how we're getting out of here..."

The End.


End file.
